


Hesitation; Change

by thesparklingone



Series: For Then, For Now, For Always: Estimeric Week 2020 [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dancing, Established Relationship, Estimeric Week (Final Fantasy XIV), Estimeric Week 2020, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25819129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesparklingone/pseuds/thesparklingone
Summary: Aymeric knew he was a deeply fortunate man. Born into singularly shameful circumstances by the measure of his homeland, he had nonetheless achieved nearly everything he had ever wanted. ‘Twas foolish to fixate on small and selfish things, spinning useless fleckerels in his mind.(Written for the Day 2 prompt, "Gala.")
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: For Then, For Now, For Always: Estimeric Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1872139
Comments: 20
Kudos: 85
Collections: Estimeric Week 2020





	Hesitation; Change

**Author's Note:**

> This work probably skirts the edge between the M & E ratings, so I rated up to be sure. NSFW, but it is, ironically, not all that explicit.
> 
> Estimeric Week continues apace! Check out the twitter account for more! https://twitter.com/estimericweek1

The annual Haillenarte gala was at its raucous apex, loud and lively with chatter, music, and the click of heels on tile as couples danced and servants deftly wove through the crush of lavishly dressed guests with plates of refreshments and glasses of wine. The summer evening was mild and fine—or as mild and fine as evenings got in Ishgard nowadays—and spirits were high; moods light. Aymeric meandered his own way through the crowd, stopped often by shouts and greetings, the majority of which were at least genuinely friendly. Overall, he was enjoying himself. House Haillenarte certainly knew how to throw a party.

“Ser Aymeric de Borel!” The strong, assertive voice could not fail to draw his attention. “I do believe I have yet to dance with you this evening!”

Aymeric turned around to find one Countess Eloise de Fortemps, beautiful and formidable wife of Count Artoirel, smiling broadly at him and proffering her elegant hand. “Take me for a turn around the floor, would you, Lord Commander?”

“Countess Eloise, I doubt I could refuse even if I wished to,” he replied, grinning. Grasping her long fingers in his, he obediently led her to the center of the ballroom, where the musicians were busy striking up a waltz. As befit a lady of her station, she was an accomplished dancer, and he deftly maneuvered the pair of them between and amongst the other twirling couples, the distinct one-two-three of the dance’s cadence carrying them along through the current of other bodies in motion.

“Well, Ser Aymeric, I daresay you do not disappoint on the dance floor,” Eloise commented.

“Implying I disappoint in other ways?” he replied, and the countess laughed.

“Cheeky, you are! But no, that was not my intended implication.” Her eyes twinkled. “I was rather thinking of the turn I took earlier with Lord Stephanivien. Fine man though he may be, the Blessed Fury clearly saw fit to gift him with naught but two left feet.”

“Poor Lord Stephanivien,” Aymeric said, smiling. “He finds his preferences lead him in other directions, I am certain.”

“Not unlike a certain dragoon of yours, dare I venture,” Eloise commented, and Aymeric arched an eyebrow at her. “Where is Ser Estinien, my lord? I do believe the last I saw of him was at my wedding.”

An oncoming and oblivious pair of dancers who seemed perhaps a bit too far into their cups prompted Aymeric to suddenly swing the countess in a sharp reverse pivot to avoid a collision. Caught off-guard, Eloise nonetheless executed the movement with grace.

“Apologies, my lady,” Aymeric said, returning them to a series of fluid natural turns. He had indeed managed to pester Estinien into attending the marriage of Count Artoirel and Lady Eloise, mostly by using the argument that it would be a dishonor to the late Lord Haurchefant to do otherwise. That had been nearly eighteen moons ago now, and Estinien had not stepped remotely near an Isghardian formal event since. “As for Ser Estinien, well, he loathes these sorts of things with an intensity I can only describe as blazing, and thus does he elect to stay home.”

“And are you quite unbothered by that?”

Aymeric eyed her, their progressive chassé carrying them diagonally across the ballroom. The countess, despite her very different upbringing, possessed at least one trait in common with Estinien, and that was the ability to cut right to the heart of whatever was being discussed like a knife through butter.

“Less so than he is by attending.”

“A suitably diplomatic answer,” she replied, throwing him a shrewd glance. “’Tis nonetheless a pity. The two of you do make such a striking pair.”

The comment provoked a blush before he could suppress it, and Aymeric very nearly missed a step. “Ha…” He cleared his throat. “Well, full glad am I that you seem to think so, my lady.”

“I do indeed,” she said, a saucy smile on her lips.

Their dance completed, he bowed to his partner and Lady Eloise returned his courtesy with a curtsey of her own, then took his elbow as he escorted her back to her waiting husband.

Artoirel applauded them gently as they returned. “Lovely show, the both of you,” he said.

“Thank you, my dear,” Eloise replied, slipping her arm into her husband’s as she dropped Aymeric’s. “Have you had enough of a rest or do I need to seek yet another dance partner to occupy me until my beloved again deigns to accompany me onto the floor?”

Artoirel threw Aymeric a wry grin. “She is insatiable.”

“I love to dance,” the countess declared. “And we hardly have much time for it in the day-to-day, do we? Now come along, they are playing a courante.”

“As you wish,” Artoirel said, inclining his head to Aymeric before leading Eloise back toward the other dancers, both their faces lit with radiant smiles. Aymeric’s own smile turned wistful as he watched them go, a familiar ache settling quietly beneath his ribs.

* * * * *

When he left the party was still lively but turning toward its denoument. It was well past midnight, the waxing crescent of the moon shining white in the heavens amidst the crowd of stars. Aymeric slid his hands into the pockets of his coat as he ambled through the Pillars, peaceful now that he was away from the din of the ball. The summer night was cool but not cold, too much a rarity now in Ishgard, and he found the long walk ‘twixt Manor Haillenarte and his own home on the eastern edge of the district to be distinctly pleasant as a result. Why, he had not even worn a scarf and he found that he did not miss it.

He did find that he missed Estinien.

Aymeric sighed to himself. It was not as if his partner’s absence came as a surprise, as he had told Lady Eloise, Estinien loathed formal events, and had for as long as Aymeric had known him. Even as Azure Dragoon—a position that had, supposedly, come with its own share of political obligations—Estinien had disdained any expectation for him to keep up his appearances. When Aymeric had once pressed him on it, he’d responded derisively that the only appearance that mattered to him was that of approaching dragons in the sky. It still made Aymeric smile to remember it, punctuated as the exchange had been by half of Estinien’s tangled hair falling out of its badly-maintained ponytail.

Most of the time it did not trouble him. Ever had Estinien’s been a wild heart, not to be tamed or stuffed into something so confining as an Ishgardian high house gala. Aymeric would never want him any other way. Nonetheless, he found now that he had rounded six-and-thirty summers, it was becoming ever more difficult to ignore the fact that, as his peers such as Artoirel steadily paired off, it was he who was more often than not left standing alone on the sidelines, wine glass in hand.

A wry smile curled his lips. For a brief handful of years after he had been elevated to lord speaker and before he had passed five-and-thirty, he knew he had been arguably the most eligible bachelor in the city, a thought that still somewhat baffled him, considering how as a young man his tarnished parentage had singularly marked him as anything but. By now, however, even the most stubborn of Ishgardian lords seemed to have conceded that Ser Aymeric was never to marry their daughters. There had been holdouts until astonishingly recently, especially among those who were clearly determined to ignore the fact that Estinien had called Borel Manor home for years now. And while it was true that neither he nor his lover were inclined toward public displays or declarations of affection, neither had they gone out of their way to be secretive, and Aymeric had alternated between amusement and irritation at those who either did not notice or chose to ignore it.

He shook his head. He did not miss the delicate chaconne of deflecting the interests of unmarried women seeking a husband. Ever had it been a difficult line to walk, at least in part because he did genuinely enjoy the company of others, and he did genuinely enjoy partner dancing and conversation. He had possessed no desire to rudely or bluntly send any of them on their way, nor had he wished to accidentally woo someone with false hopes. In the end he had done his best to remain friendly and warm but distanced, never dancing more than once an evening with the same partner if she were unwed, never offering anything of himself beyond the minimum necessary to be considered courteous beyond reproach. It had been an exhausting whisk and weave, and he was glad to set those days behind him.

He also suspected that Estinien’s appearance with him at the Fortemps’ wedding had put the final nails in the coffin of his perceived marriageability, though they had done nothing beyond what might be expected of two unmarried friends who accompanied each other to such an event. No fond touching, no lingering glances, and certainly no dancing.

The wistful feeling fluttered in his belly again.

The thought of holding Estinien close, of feeling their bodies pressed together as they moved in time to the music… ah, well. Estinien had never learned to dance nor shown any inclination to learn, though Aymeric harbored a secret suspicion that he would be good at it were he to try. His control over his own body and its movements was a thing akin to art, the years of his dragoon training imbuing him with a strength and grace to steal the breath away.

Or maybe just Aymeric’s breath, as it were.

Manor Borel’s door loomed before him and he pulled the key from his pocket. It was perhaps not the height of propriety for a man of his standing, but he was a soldier before almost everything else, and it was ridiculous to demand his staff wait up for him simply to open the door. Besides, it was far from the worst violation of the expectations of Ishgardian culture that he had committed in his time. He let his meandering nighttime musings fall away as he stepped inside. Aymeric knew he was a deeply fortunate man. Born into singularly shameful circumstances by the measure of his homeland, he had nonetheless achieved nearly everything he had ever wanted. ‘Twas foolish to fixate on small and selfish things, spinning useless fleckerels in his mind. He hung his coat and shed his shoes, making his way upstairs to where he knew Estinien was almost certainly still awake. After the long evening, he very much looked forward to seeing him. For a variety of reasons.

* * * * *

“Welcome home,” the familiar gravel of Estinien’s voice greeted him as he pushed open the door to their room.

“’Tis good to be home,” Aymeric replied, shutting it behind him. He walked over to where Estinien lounged in bed, shirtless, a book open in his lap, and gave him a peck on the lips.

“How was the gala?”

“The usual,” Aymeric said, shimmying out of his dress coat. “Food, wine, music, dancing. ‘Twas good fun. The Countess de Fortemps sends her regards.”

“Does she, now?” Estinien replied, closing his book and setting it on the bedside table.

“Aye. She wondered why you were not there.”

Estinien scoffed. “None of those highborn fops want _me_ at their fancy parties, any more than I want to go.”

Aymeric sighed as he loosened the knot on his cravat, pulling the satin from around his neck. “Is there not one I could convince you to attend? Artoirel and Eloise shall certainly invite us to their house’s annual Starlight celebration.” He felt a minor flash of irritation at Estinien’s nonchalant shrug. “Honestly, Estinien, I am expected to put in an appearance at these things. ‘Twould be nice not to do so alone for once. When will you come with me?”

Estinien grinned and laced his fingers together behind his head, pressing further back against the pillows.

“Oh, in about twenty minutes or so, I imagine.”

Aymeric eyed his lover, his hands stalling where they had been working on undoing the buttons at his throat. Estinien shifted ever so minutely, causing the bedsheets to slide further down his hips, plainly revealing both the v-shaped line of muscle at the very base of his abdomen and the rest of what he was not wearing.

A different sort of dance had begun.

“Twenty minutes, you say,” he replied, raising his eyebrows. His gaze drifted from Estinien’s face down to the breadth of his broad, strong chest and along the lines of his muscular stomach, all etched with scars from his dragon slaying days. Aymeric knew each and every one by sight and by touch, and he never tired of either looking or feeling.

He returned to the work of undoing his shirt’s buttons, more deliberately now. “I am very nearly offended,” he said mildly. “Twenty minutes. I would have thought you at least good for a bell.”

“I’ve been waiting all evening,” Estinien retorted. Aymeric’s mouth curved into a smile. He was getting toward the bottom of his shirt, pulling it loose from where it was tucked into his slacks.

“And you have naught but yourself to blame for it, my dear. As stated, you were welcome to accompany me to the gala.”

“Implying you would have shagged me behind a hedgerow at Manor Haillenarte?” Estinien clucked like a disapproving church marm. “How uncivilized.”

Aymeric’s smile widened as he set to work on his sleeves. “Implying that, had you been present to inform me of your impatience, I would have been home earlier.” He paused as he made his way—unnecessarily slowly—to the dresser against the wall across from the bed to deposit his golden cufflinks onto the tray with a clink. “Though, had you insisted, my preference would have been for some abandoned broom closet, the better to stuff a dust cloth into your wicked moaning mouth.”

“Stuff your cock in it, instead,” Estinien replied and Aymeric laughed at last, though he continued undressing at the same unhurried pace. Estinien would growl about it, he knew, but he also knew the dragoon loved every agonizing second of the wait.

“Fury’s arse, Aymeric, hurry up,” he said, right on cue.

Aymeric replied with a non-committal noise and turned toward the bed, a lazy reverse corté to lean against the dresser, facing Estinien from across the footboard. He reached up to leisurely unhook his blue pendant earring and remove the jet-and-gold ear cuff as well, setting them down next to the cufflinks on the tray. Jewelry at last discarded, he shrugged out of the unbuttoned silk shirt and began to meticulously fold it.

Estinien pressed the heels of both his palms into his eyes and cursed. “Seven hells you are driving me mad.”

“Is that so,” Aymeric murmured. He tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes, gazing at Estinien through the thick black fringe of his lashes as he very slowly began to unbuckle his belt.

“You know it damn well, you insufferable tease,” Estinien retorted. “But if you should _doubt_ …”

He kicked off the rest of the bedsheets, sprawling artlessly across the mattress and pillows, revealing both his nudity and the enormous erection that flexed against his belly, flushed and iron-hard.

As Aymeric watched, Estinien reached to curl his fingers around his thickened cock, slowly tracing one long stroke from base to tip, pressing his thumb into its crown, and sending a ball of white-hot lust streaking into the pit of Aymeric’s belly. He could practically feel that hand between his own legs just from looking, and he knew this dance was over. He conceded to his partner and shucked what remained of his clothing with enthusiastic alacrity.

“That’s more like it,” Estinien said with a grin.

They tumbled across the pillows and sheets, mouths and skin pressed together, entwined in each other’s arms. Aymeric’s favorite secret was how easily Estinien yielded to him like this. How easily his back arched, lips parting, as Aymeric raked his fingers down his magnificent chest. How easily he called his name into the dark, voice thick and breathy, begging to be touched, to be kissed, to be led and felt and taken. In their bedroom, in the closed position of their bodies, beneath Aymeric’s strong and knowing hands, his deft and clever mouth, the last Azure Dragoon of Ishgard came apart like the loose hem of an old shirt, gently rent by loving fingers, beautifully fraying under calloused palms. Perhaps all the years of relentless battle and unceasing resolve had instilled in him a private longing for surrender. Or perhaps Aymeric was just that good a fuck. Whatever the reason, as far as concerned the Lord Commander of Our Knights Most Heavenly, the former Knight Dragoon beneath him was indeed the most heavenly body of all, the one he wanted forever in his orbit, forever turning in their natural weave.

When they were done, Aymeric braced himself on one arm, one of Estinien’s legs hooked over his shoulder, his free hand idly carding through his long white hair. Estinien pressed both his palms to either side of Aymeric’s face, fingers twining in those thick black curls, thumbs gently caressing the arches of his cheekbones. Aymeric leaned down to kiss him, slow and sweet, careful to avoid the sticky mess that ribboned Estinien’s chest.

“What a fine sight you are, my love,” he said softly, and Estinien huffed a breathy laugh, tired and sated.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he replied, smiling wryly. Aymeric kissed him again and gently disengaged himself from his lover so they could clean themselves up and ready for sleep. He glanced over at the clock.

"Twenty- _five_ minutes," he said, prompting a shout of laughter.

As they drifted off together, Estinien draped across his chest, Aymeric saw in his dreams the bright lights of the Manor Haillenarte dance floor and a silver-haired dragoon cradled in his arms.

* * * * *

They slept late, wrapped around the bedsheets and each other. Eventually, they dragged themselves to breakfast and the start of their day, Aymeric to the Congregation to catch up on paperwork, Estinien to Anyx Trine, to pay a visit to the the dragons who had not long past been his and all Ishgard’s mortal enemies. He would be away perhaps three weeks by his reckoning, and Aymeric worked hard not to act as mournful about it as he felt. To watch him go was never one of his favorite activities, but the pang of it was, as always, offset by the knowledge that he would not long be gone. Though he doubted his roving dragoon would ever fully be rid of his inclination to wander, over the years Aymeric had noticed the amount of time he spent in Ishgard versus the amount of time he spent away steadily shifting in favor of his presence in the city. For this blessing was he ever grateful. Though his heart ached like a mournful sarabande whenever Estinien walked out the door to promenade across the land without him, every departure was nonetheless laced with the anticipation of what was to come, the small, steady promise of tomorrow.

Estinien did not travel so he could leave. He traveled so he could come home.

In the foyer, before they each departed, Aymeric stopped to admire Estinien in his dragoon armor, the precious gift he knew Hraesvelgr himself had bestowed him atop the Churning Mists. It suited him well, and a dollop of heat bloomed at the base of Aymeric’s spine as he ran his hand over his partner’s chest, encased in azure plate.

“Give my regards to Vedrfolnir and Vidofnir,” he said. “And any other of our Dravanian neighbors.”

“I will,” Estinien promised, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “I’ve warned Lucia not to let you mope about your work while I’m gone.”

Aymeric laughed. “I see. Well, I am sure she shall give you a full report upon your return.”

“Aye,” the dragoon replied. “Farewell for now, Aymeric.”

“Safe travels, Estinien.”

He understood well why Estinien entreated Lucia to keep an eye on him in his absence. The truth of it was that Aymeric had always been inclined toward overwork, and now more than ever it remained an effective distraction from the loneliness that settled over him like cold and heavy arms whenever Estinien was away. There were, as ever, reports to read, units to deploy, recruits to examine, letters to send, missives to sign and stamp. There were petitions to be heard, reforms to debate, committees to arrange and attend. He was grateful for the steady presence of Lucia, Hilda, Handeloup, Artoirel, Francel, and others. Spun between his obligations to Ishgard and the companionship of his friends, the time passed quickly.

Of an evening, he took his tea after dinner in the parlor, and sorted through the news of the day. He had a pile of unread post that his steward had graciously organized for him from most to least important, and on the very top of the stack was a heavy envelope sealed in red wax, emblazoned with the crest of House Fortemps. He recognized Artoirel’s own handwriting on the address, which surprised him—whatever it was, the count had not dictated this to a secretary. Inside, Aymeric found a formal invitation to a party at the manor dated for the following week, accompanied by a letter, which read:

_Ser Aymeric de Borel, Lord Speaker of the House of Lords, Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, Viscount of House Borel—_

_Pray, forgive the short notice of this invitation. After speaking with you and the Countess at the Haillenarte Summer Gala last weekend I did realize that she is correct; we never do get much chance to practice our dancing in our daily lives and she does indeed love it so. Thus have I conspired to throw her a surprise party where we all may spend another evening doing just that. As an accomplished dancer yourself and staunch friend to House Fortemps, I must entreat you to join us, as it would greatly please us both to have you there. Ser Estinien is also welcome to attend, as I am sure you are aware, though I understand he rarely does so and will of course not be offended should you be on your own. Regardless, please do grant us the honor of your presence._

_In addition, please send any response directly to me, and pray, do not speak of this event to others, as I would like to keep the surprise nature of it intact for Eloise! I am sure you understand._

_Eternally yours,_

_Count Artoirel de Fortemps_

Aymeric smiled down at the letter and the invitation. Of course he would attend; he could do naught but support such a touching gesture from one beloved to another. Artoirel truly did seem to be smitten with his wife, and in Ishgard especially that was something to be celebrated. He could very well imagine the countess’ delight when she walked into her surprise dance party, how she would beam, how she and Artoirel would simply be radiant together in their happiness.

Aymeric’s smile slipped.

He shook his head. ‘Twas true that perhaps to a degree he envied them the way they would be a pair, together, at their party. Even if he believed he could convince Estinien to go with him—and he knew well that he could not—Estinien would not be returned in time, so it hardly mattered. But it did him no good to wallow in this. He would go and he would have a grand time, and if he had to content himself with being a solo attendee, well, it was at least a familiar plight, if not an entirely welcome one.

* * * * *

Bathed and groomed, Aymeric dressed himself for the Fortemps’ party. Despite the familiarity of the routine he could not prevent the sense of soft wistfulness, the acute awareness of the looming silence in his chambers and throughout the house. This eve he felt Estinien’s absence more keenly than usual.

With a sigh, he inspected himself in the mirror. Black, summer wool suit with tails, trimmed in gold and Borel blue, with a matching waistcoat, white silk shirt, starched collar, and white silk cravat. The signature black ear cuff and bright blue pendant earring were both in place on his left ear. ‘Twas rather his usual, though for the sake of preventing gossip he did try to vary his look at least often enough to demonstrate that he paid attention. Tonight he felt particularly uninspired but he supposed that was just the nature of the melancholy that had settled around him these last few days. He was presentable, at least, and he knew that Artoirel and Eloise of all people would simply be pleased to see him.

Something about that thought made his throat ache. He still found it strange, more often than not, when others among the nobility were pleased to see him.

Satisfied that all was well, he made his way down to the foyer, where he found something he did not expect.

He knew that figure. Knew the outline of his body, the way he squared his shoulders and shifted his weight to one side, muscles rolling in his powerful thighs. Knew that glorious mane of thick white hair and the long, pointed ears that parted its locks. He would know it in the dark, in his sleep, or from the distance of a thousand paces.

It was Estinien, waiting by the door. Estinien, who was supposed to be in Dravania. Estinien— _dressed to the nines_.

As Aymeric had almost never seen him.

His suit was deep, rich blue, a color that Aymeric could tell would wonderfully highlight his eyes, and trimmed all over in white to match his hair. Silver cufflinks gleamed at the ends of the sleeves of his white shirt and he had even deigned to tie a sky-blue silk cravat around his neck.

He was _stunning_.

Their eyes met as Aymeric drew near, and Estinien threw him a lopsided, self-conscious smile.

“Surprise,” he said softly.

And oh, it _was_. So much so that Aymeric merely stared, open-mouthed, until Estinien walked the last few paces to close the gap between them and gently crooked a knuckle under his chin.

“That bad, eh?”

“ _No_ ,” Aymeric immediately countered. His eyes flickered all over Estinien, from the iridescent satin of his lapels to the delicate plaits he noticed pulling his hair back from his temples. “You—you look incredible. _Brilliant_. I—” he trailed off, for once in his life truly at a loss for words, so he did the first thing that came to mind, which was to grab Estinien’s face in both his hands and kiss him. Firmly.

“Gods, you are beautiful,” he said softly, drawing back. A slight pink flush crept along the lines of Estinien’s cheekbones and he harrumphed gruffly, which made Aymeric smile.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you gone to Dravania.”

“So I meant to be,” Estinien replied. “Come on, I’ll explain.” He offered his elbow, as if to play escort, and Aymeric half-laughed at it.

“Are you taking me out to the Fortemps’ party, then?”

“After a fashion,” Estinien said. His eyes sparkled with some sort of mischief and Aymeric could not help but smile again as he slipped his arm through his lover’s. He’d known Estinien now for nearly fifteen years, and yet he still could catch him unawares.

And he did so again, as he promptly steered Aymeric away from the door and toward the courtyard garden.

“I suspect you know this, Estinien, but Manor Fortemps is to be found in the opposite direction.”

“’Tis not to Manor Fortemps that we go,” he said.

Before Aymeric could speak further Estinien stopped, reached over, and pressed a finger to his lips.

“Trust me.”

They stepped out into the courtyard, into the cool Coerthan summer, and Aymeric blinked. By the fountain was a small, square table, draped in one of the old, formal embroidered tablecloths that had certainly not been used in at least a decade, crowned with lit candles in a golden candelabra, and elaborately set for two. To the side stood his steward, Tiraux, a bottle of wine in hand, clearly working—and failing—to suppress a smile.

Aymeric set his feet, looking between the two of them, and refused to go another step.

“I really must insist that you tell me what is going on.”

Estinien worried the side of his lip with his teeth, a cheeky grin creeping across his face. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said.

“Do have a seat, my lord,” Tiraux added, pouring out a generous measure of wine into each glass.

“Do not tell me that you too, are in on this,” Aymeric said. “…Whatever this is.”

“Of course he’s in on it, you silly knight,” Estinien said, guiding him firmly toward the table. “How else do you think both I and the table here got all dressed up without you noticing? Now sit.”

Mystified and somewhat bemused, Aymeric did as he was bid.

“That’s more like it,” Estinien said, taking the seat across from him. Aymeric could have sworn he saw his steward throw the dragoon a wink before turning smartly on his heel and heading back indoors.

Estinien raised his wineglass in a toast. Aymeric just stared at him. Estinien raised his eyebrows too, and nodded toward the glass. With a sigh, Aymeric acquiesced, lifted his own glass, and clinked it to Estinien’s.

“Cheers,” Estinien said, and took a sip.

“My dear,” Aymeric began, “I do believe I have been rather patient—”

Estinien’s snickering interrupted him. “Oh, you do not like it when the tables are turned on the teasing,” he commented. “Not one bit.”

“I simply wish to know—”

“What is going on,” Estinien finished. That cheeky smile still laced his face. Whatever it was, he was very pleased with himself, indeed. “Aye, aye, and so you shall.”

To this, Aymeric had no chance to respond, for Tiraux returned carrying two steaming plates.

“My good sers,” he said cheerfully, “May I present the first course.”

Dinner was lovely and delicious. Madame Tausette had indeed surpassed even her usual standards of excellence in preparing all of Aymeric’s favorites, from the delicately spiced cabbage rolls to the rich braised dhalmel roast. While they ate, Estinien at last revealed the details of what, exactly, had brought them to this moment.

It was, as it turned out, a somewhat elaborate hoax. One conceived of and designed by none other than the indomitable Countess Eloise de Fortemps herself, who had nigh accosted Estinien upon his departure from Borel Manor two weeks prior, and given him an earful for his absence at the Haillenarte gala.

“Some partner, indeed!” she’d declared, at least according to Estinien’s recollection. “He dances well enough with others, but he clearly longs for _you_.” She’d lifted her chin and looked down her nose in the imperious manner only a true highborn could attain. “All those lords and ladies with their beloved on their arm, and Ishgard’s very Lord Speaker left alone.”

It was rare indeed that anyone who didn’t already know him was willing to approach Estinien, let alone berate him in the street. But Countess Eloise was, as the saying went, a right firecracker of a woman, and he’d half worried she’d follow him the whole way to Dravania until he’d agreed to her plan. Which this was, almost entirely.

“So, the invitation from Artoirel…?”

“A ruse,” Estinien admitted. “There is no event tonight at Manor Fortemps.”

“I see,” Aymeric said. He paused. “If I may say so, it does seem quite the set up for a mere date.”

“Don’t you like it?”

Aymeric sucked in his breath through his teeth and raked his eyes over Estinien, drinking in the rare sight of him in true finery. Outdoors his salt-white hair shimmered in the fading sunlight and the sumptuous silk at his throat gleamed enticingly, the tailored lines of the suit emphasizing his broad, strong shoulders and narrow waist. Aymeric made no attempt to temper his admiration or the hunger in his gaze, and the small blush returned to Estinien’s cheeks.

“I very much like it,” Aymeric said. “I am simply surprised.”

“As was the intention,” Estinien replied. “A surprise for my lord commander.”

Aymeric smiled at him. “I have not commanded you in nigh on half a decade, my friend.” His smile widened. “And oft not even when I technically did.”

Estinien laughed, but his blush deepened. “You have always commanded me, Aymeric,” he said softly. “Whether you realized it or not.”

A lump suddenly lodged itself into Aymeric’s throat and he reached to weave his fingers through his partner’s, his own pale eyes fixed on Estinien’s deep, blue-gray ones.

“I would also apologize,” Estinien said.

Aymeric blinked. “Whatever for?”

“For being unwilling to compromise.” He cocked his head at Aymeric. “Though I didn’t realize how much you disliked attending all these functions alone, because you never bothered to tell me.”

Aymeric shook his head. “I know how much you hate them. I would not ask you to endure such displeasure for my sake.”

Estinien gave him a sidelong look and rubbed his hand across his mouth. “Aymeric, do me the favor of trusting me to make my own decisions about this kind of thing.”

That stung, and Aymeric couldn’t prevent the frown that creased his brow. “I trust you,” he insisted, trying not to sound as hurt as he felt. “I—” he cut himself off, and made to pull his hand apart from Estinien’s, but the dragoon gripped his fingers tighter and would not let go. “I wish not to argue over this, Estinien,” he finished.

“This is not an argument,” Estinien countered. “This is a negotiation. I hear you’re supposed to be good at those. Now.” His eyes bored holes into Aymeric’s own. “Tell me what you want. Be honest. And trust me with your honesty.”

Aymeric hesitated. This was not their first dance around the topic of his obligations and the way they often interfered with their personal life. From those previous experiences did he also know that this was the place where the raw edges of both their insecurities tended to scrape with the greatest friction. For him, the bone-deep fear of the unacknowledged bastard son that if he were needy or inconvenient, if he dared ask too much he would be cast aside, unwanted. For Estinien, the shame of knowing the city entire had witnessed the worst moments of his life on full display in Falcon’s Nest and across the Steps of Faith, and the resultant impulse to retreat to the shadows, unseen. By now Aymeric had hoped that he would be more adept at navigating this treacherous ground, and yet the anxiety still sat leaden in his stomach, a hard and sour weight.

 _Trust me_ , Estinien had said, so Aymeric did.

“I want you at my side,” he said. “I—I want—” His voice caught in his constricting throat and he closed his eyes, swallowing. Halone, this was a challenge. “I want everyone to see and know that I cherish you above all others. That I love you.”

Estinien raised one of his elegant silver eyebrows.

“Do their opinions matter to you that much?”

“’Tis not what I mean.” Aymeric shifted uneasily in his seat. He was unused to having this much difficulty expressing himself, and oh Fury, that certainly meant that they were poking ‘round the very core of his beating heart. He spoke slowly, picking his words with great care. “When you refuse to accompany me it feels as if you wish not to be seen with me. As if you are ashamed of being my associate.”

“Aymeric,” Estinien said gently, “who could possibly be ashamed of being your associate?”

Now, Aymeric was forced to lower his eyes. Now he felt the true heat of his own shame—the shame he knew he was unfairly projecting onto Estinien—spread across his cheeks.

“Can you truly think of no one?” he asked, his voice very low.

There was silence for a long moment, then Estinien cursed and groaned.

“Oh, Fury’s tits,” he said. “I didn’t realize.”

Aymeric grimaced and shook his head slowly, appalled at his own weakness. “Forgive me, Estinien. I know ‘tis beyond stupid of me to fear such a thing, but—”

“For gods’ sake,” Estinien interrupted him, though he was clearly more bemused than upset. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“He has been dead for nearly five years,” Aymeric muttered. “One would think I would be past it by now.”

Estinien scoffed. “What must you think of me, then, grieving my family for twenty and more.”

A fresh wave of hot shame further colored Aymeric’s cheeks. “’Tis not the same—”

“’Tis not, you’re right,” Estinien interrupted. He gently disentangled his fingers from Aymeric’s and reached to tilt the knight’s chin upwards until their eyes met. “Mine loved me. I grieve for what was taken from me. I can’t imagine what it must be like to grieve what you were never even allowed to have.”

Points of heat burned in the corners of Aymeric’s eyes and he tried to look away again, but Estinien held him firm.

“I was fortunate,” Aymeric said, voice thick with emotion. “I had good parents who loved me, though I was not of their blood…”

“Is this the mantra you recite when you’re trying to convince yourself you shouldn’t be upset that you never knew your mother, and that your father not only refused to acknowledge you, but damn near had you murdered?”

Aymeric closed his eyes. Oh, Estinien, his oldest friend, his dearest heart. Ever had he been uncannily able to slice right through whatever web Aymeric wove when he feared to look too closely at himself. Ever was he so different in this respect from those among whom Aymeric had been raised, from the society through which he had walked from the very day of his ill-fated birth. In the Pillars, everything was a dance, and you danced around unpleasantness and you danced around egos and you danced around the bloody truth.

Estinien, never one for such things, sought truth with the unerring and merciless point of a dragoon’s lance, and Aymeric loved him for it. Aymeric would always love him for it, even when it hurt, even when that lance point slipped right between his ribs and pierced his own heart.

“Aye,” he said at last. “I suppose it is.”

Estinien snorted, but there was affection in it.

“Filthy habit,” he replied, and Aymeric managed a smile.

The sun was down by now and they finished the rest of their meal by star- and candlelight, enjoying the mild evening. Summer in Coerthas was a quick and fragile thing, a mere handful of warm weeks free of frost before the weather turned and again plunged all the highlands and the city into winter chill. They would enjoy it then, and take their time. Linger over their food and drink in the garden while they could.

“So when’s the next thing you have to attend?” Estinien asked. “You mentioned Starlight but I’m sure there’s som—”

“Estinien, no,” Aymeric cut in. “You hate them, they make you miserable. I wish not to demand so much of you.”

“Says the man who demanded an end to the Dragonsong War,” the dragoon retorted. “Says the man who demanded the church relinquish its rule and the high houses share theirs with the commoners.” Estinien’s eyes twinkled fondly and Aymeric’s cheeks started to redden again. “Says the man who would pluck the very stars from the sky for all Ishgard but will not ask his partner to spend a few hours with him at a party,” he finished. “Aymeric, I can endure a little discomfort for your sake. Fury knows you have endured plenty for mine.”

“You have endured enough of your own discomfort on behalf of Ishgard,” Aymeric replied. “Everything that happened with the Eyes, Estinien. I would not place another burden upon you. Not one.”

“ _Aymeric_.” Estinien looked at him, exasperated. “Pleasing you is no burden. You know that I love you too, right?”

Chastised yet again, Aymeric mumbled his assent. He did know, he knew it in his marrow. He knew it by every touch and kiss and teasing jest. He knew it by how Estinien looked at him. He knew it by how he always came back.

“Then, as I told you earlier, _trust me to make my own decision_.”

Aymeric had to concede defeat.

“If you are certain,” he said.

“Of course I’m certain.”

Aymeric fell silent and simply watched his lover for a few moments. He watched the way his hair spilled down across his shoulders, framing his high cheekbones and strong jaw in shining silver. He watched the way that Estinien’s strength was evident even under the layers of his clothing, the muscles in his arms and shoulders gently flexing with each subtle movement in his seat. He watched the way those strong, calloused fingers held the wine glass with deceptive lightness, his inherent poise evident even in so small a gesture.

He made a decision.

He stood and walked around to Estinien’s side of the table, extending his hand.

“Would you dance with me?”

Estinien blinked, surprised. “You want to dance?”

“Aye,” Aymeric said quietly. “I have wished to dance with you for a long time, Estinien.”

Exasperation flickered across Estinien’s face again. “ _Aymeric_ —”

“None of that now, please,” Aymeric said, with perhaps just a little of the lord commander’s tone creeping into his voice. “You can berate me for my hesitation later. You bid me ask for what I want, and so I am.”

A broad, wry smile spread across Estinien’s face. “So you are,” he agreed. He reached to take Aymeric’s hand and stood. “I make no promises as to my skill.”

“None are needed, my dear, as I am quite certain you are atrocious,” Aymeric replied, to Estinien’s indignant sputter. He led him away from the table, to the open courtyard where the moonlight spilled across the paving stones and crowned them both in silver.

“Now,” Aymeric began, “to start with, you must needs learn to hold the proper frame. Here, let me show you.”

He arranged them into closed position, standing slightly offset to the left, Estinien’s right foot between both of his. He showed Estinien how to place his left hand such that the web between his thumb and forefinger lay along the line of Aymeric’s right deltoid, his own right hand softly pressed against Estinien’s shoulder blade, allowing Estinien’s arm to rest gently atop his. Estinien’s right hand he clasped in his left, holding them out to one side and up about eye level. He noted the way Estinien’s brow furrowed in concentration, the slight flush on his cheeks that Aymeric dearly hoped was bashfulness, because there was nothing in all the world he found more endearing than a chary Estinien, and he so rarely got to see it.

“What are we dancing?” he asked.

“A waltz,” Aymeric replied. “I shall go slowly. Right foot first.”

He led them around the little courtyard, step by deliberate step, counting one-two-three under his breath to keep time. As expected, Estinien mixed up his feet, trod on Aymeric’s toes, and cursed a blue streak each time he did so. But Aymeric was skilled, patient, and steadfast, and Estinien had the instinctive proprioception and grace of a dragoon, and in less time than might have been imagined, they were able to perform a simple box step with relative ease, enough so that Aymeric dared to sweep Estinien through a reverse turn diagonally down the garden, and only once did he miss a step.

“Thank you,” he told Estinien at the end, releasing him. “I very much enjoyed that.”

“Even with all the bruised toes?” Estinien replied. “Your standards are low, Aymeric.”

“Nevertheless.” He brushed a kiss to Estinien’s cheek. “I had a lovely evening. I appreciate your arranging it.”

“Thank the good Countess de Fortemps,” Estinien said drily. “She’s a veritable force of nature.”

“I shall send her a handwritten card and a bouquet of the finest roses,” Aymeric declared. “Anyone who can convince you to dress up is someone whose favor I wish to court most doggedly.”

Estinien laughed and tugged at the knot of his cravat. “Hmph. I’ve no intention of making it a habit.”

“Might I thus assume you are now eager to be rid of this ensemble?”

“You might,” Estinien gave him a sidelong glance. “What are you thinking?”

“Only that I cannot help but be reminded,” Aymeric began, “that whenever I am off to one of these fancy parties you so eschew, I tend to come home to a very particular scenario.”

“Ah ha.” A slow grin spread across Estinien’s face. “Shall I go take all this off, then, and wait for you in bed?”

“Oh no, not tonight,” Aymeric replied. “Tonight I think I should very much like to help you out of it.” 

Estinien evidently also found this an excellent suggestion, so they hurried up the stairs, grinning like boys, to tangle in a tango ‘twixt the sheets.

**Author's Note:**

> A hesitation change is a standard move performed in the International Competitive Waltz (aka slow waltz) in competitive ballroom dancing. I also did my best to shoehorn in as many other references to dances and dance moves as I could, because why not?
> 
> I'll be honest and say that my instinct is that there's something off here with the pacing, something about this story doesn't quite work but hey it's for the day 2 prompt and it's day 2 so up it goes. Hope you enjoyed regardless!


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